There is a man, born of two minds, on a rooftop with No Eyes. The building he stands upon has no floor. There are no roads that lead here. It is said that many have attempted to build a left road and right road but No Builder has been able to prevail. Not even, or odd, the builder of the rooftop.

Sing to us, oh man of the roof, so that we may join you and give you your eyes. For your eyes are a great burden to us and we no longer wish to carry them. Sing that tune that we all know so well, that we eat and breathe everyday.

But the man never listens. He leaves us with his eyes and we leave him with our site. Singing was never his thing, you know. Shouldn't you know?

Until the day we build that floor. You see it or You Don't. Five times it has been done. Not once by our hands. Not Once.

You care for an explanation, yes? Perhaps not. Perhaps you don't care. Perhaps you enjoy the mystique. But explanations are trivial in pursuing it's intent. Care is trivial in receiving it. And the mystique was never found because you were never really watching.

At 9/18/2012 1:38:37 AM, FREEDO wrote:FREEDO, you are one baked potato.

I love baked potatoes!

"Well, that gives whole new meaning to my assassination. If I was going to die anyway, perhaps I should leave the Bolsheviks' descendants some Christmas cookies instead of breaking their dishes and vodka bottles in their sleep." -Tsar Nicholas II (YYW)

There is a man, born of two minds, on a rooftop with No Eyes. The building he stands upon has no floor. There are no roads that lead here. It is said that many have attempted to build a left road and right road but No Builder has been able to prevail. Not even, or odd, the builder of the rooftop.

Sing to us, oh man of the roof, so that we may join you and give you your eyes. For your eyes are a great burden to us and we no longer wish to carry them. Sing that tune that we all know so well, that we eat and breathe everyday.

But the man never listens. He leaves us with his eyes and we leave him with our site. Singing was never his thing, you know. Shouldn't you know?

Until the day we build that floor. You see it or You Don't. Five times it has been done. Not once by our hands. Not Once.

You care for an explanation, yes? Perhaps not. Perhaps you don't care. Perhaps you enjoy the mystique. But explanations are trivial in pursuing it's intent. Care is trivial in receiving it. And the mystique was never found because you were never really watching.

Okay so here goes.....The man is a book, the two minds are the front and back covers, the roof with no floor is a table and of course, no roads are built to it.

The book has no eyes, we have it's eyes, the song we know so well and eat and breathe everyday are words and stories. The book doesn't listen or sing and we leave him with our sight as we read.

The floor of the table is the house itself but the one not built by our hands is understanding. You either understand (see it) or you don't and the fives times this has been done before I think refers to the human body itself. What is left to build finally by our "hands" (minds) is the House of Truth.

There is a man, born of two minds, on a rooftop with No Eyes. The building he stands upon has no floor. There are no roads that lead here. It is said that many have attempted to build a left road and right road but No Builder has been able to prevail. Not even, or odd, the builder of the rooftop.

Sing to us, oh man of the roof, so that we may join you and give you your eyes. For your eyes are a great burden to us and we no longer wish to carry them. Sing that tune that we all know so well, that we eat and breathe everyday.

But the man never listens. He leaves us with his eyes and we leave him with our site. Singing was never his thing, you know. Shouldn't you know?

Until the day we build that floor. You see it or You Don't. Five times it has been done. Not once by our hands. Not Once.

You care for an explanation, yes? Perhaps not. Perhaps you don't care. Perhaps you enjoy the mystique. But explanations are trivial in pursuing it's intent. Care is trivial in receiving it. And the mystique was never found because you were never really watching.

Okay so here goes.....The man is a book, the two minds are the front and back covers, the roof with no floor is a table and of course, no roads are built to it.

The book has no eyes, we have it's eyes, the song we know so well and eat and breathe everyday are words and stories. The book doesn't listen or sing and we leave him with our sight as we read.

The floor of the table is the house itself but the one not built by our hands is understanding. You either understand (see it) or you don't and the fives times this has been done before I think refers to the human body itself. What is left to build finally by our "hands" (minds) is the House of Truth.

There is a man, born of two minds, on a rooftop with No Eyes. The building he stands upon has no floor. There are no roads that lead here. It is said that many have attempted to build a left road and right road but No Builder has been able to prevail. Not even, or odd, the builder of the rooftop.

Sing to us, oh man of the roof, so that we may join you and give you your eyes. For your eyes are a great burden to us and we no longer wish to carry them. Sing that tune that we all know so well, that we eat and breathe everyday.

But the man never listens. He leaves us with his eyes and we leave him with our site. Singing was never his thing, you know. Shouldn't you know?

Until the day we build that floor. You see it or You Don't. Five times it has been done. Not once by our hands. Not Once.

You care for an explanation, yes? Perhaps not. Perhaps you don't care. Perhaps you enjoy the mystique. But explanations are trivial in pursuing it's intent. Care is trivial in receiving it. And the mystique was never found because you were never really watching.

Okay so here goes.....The man is a book, the two minds are the front and back covers, the roof with no floor is a table and of course, no roads are built to it.

The book has no eyes, we have it's eyes, the song we know so well and eat and breathe everyday are words and stories. The book doesn't listen or sing and we leave him with our sight as we read.

The floor of the table is the house itself but the one not built by our hands is understanding. You either understand (see it) or you don't and the fives times this has been done before I think refers to the human body itself. What is left to build finally by our "hands" (minds) is the House of Truth.